


Rising

by dragon_temeraire



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU in a lot of ways, Alpha Derek Hale, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Healing, M/M, Phoenix Stiles Stilinski, Trust
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2019-10-10 13:41:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17426957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragon_temeraire/pseuds/dragon_temeraire
Summary: “Derek told us about meeting you in the woods the other day,” Erica says. “He tried to play it cool, but we could tell he was worried.”“Worried? About me?” Stiles gestures to himself jokingly.“Apparently when he met you, you were completely on fire,” Isaac says dryly.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this prompt, though I didn’t quite follow it: “I was imagining an interesting scenario - Stiles is a phoenix, drawn to the nemeton like lots of others, but he instinctively wants to use it as a pyre to draw on its power while also being reborn as phoenixes need to do on occasion. Then he meets the territory’s alpha...”
> 
> (Disclaimer: I know next to nothing about metalworking)
> 
> The next part should be posted within a week!

 

 

Stiles is used to moving.

He and his dad have been all over the country, drifting from place to place, ever since Stiles’ mother burned away and never came back.

He knows his dad is trying to find somewhere he can be content, can be settled, because Stiles’ reckless behavior means he needs to regenerate frequently. He doesn’t mind it, even likes the feeling of rebirth, but it makes his dad very anxious.

Sometimes he comes back and finds his dad lingering over the ash and hot coals of his previous self, a haunted look on his face.

Stiles knows something has to change.

And not long after his twentieth birthday, something does.

He starts to get a pulling sensation, like a gentle yearning right in the center of his chest. Its call isn’t overwhelming, but it _is_ consistent, and it feels like, if he doesn’t heed it, it might never stop.

It takes him several days to figure out _where_ the call is coming from, but he eventually manages. That night at dinner, he places a map in front of his dad and points out a town, saying, “I want to go here.”

His dad frowns down at the small letters. “Beacon Hills?” he says. “Never heard of it.” He gives Stiles a small smile. “I’ll start looking for houses tomorrow.”

His dad not only finds a house with an attached workshop, he also finds a job.

“Seems like they have a shortage of deputies at the Sheriff’s station,” his dad says. “I contacted some of the ones who quit, and they said that the job was either too boring, or too weird.” He gives Stiles an amused smile. “Good thing I’m adept at handling both.”

Stiles grins back.

 

*

 

Stiles feels light and free the moment they enter Beacon Hills, his fire pulsing happily beneath his skin. He’s definitely in the right place.

His dad pulls to the curb on their way through town. “I rented you a little storefront,” he says, pointing it out. It _is_ small, crammed between a boutique clothing store and a pharmacy, but Stiles immediately loves it. “You can set whatever hours you want,” he adds as he merges back into traffic.

Stiles takes a brief tour of the house when they get there, and snags an upstairs bedroom, but it’s really the workshop he’s interested in.

It turns out to be _perfect_ , a large open space where absolutely nothing is flammable, so he doesn’t have to concentrate so hard on perfect control. Just as a test, he sends a lick of flame across the room, and his dad gives him a stern look.

“I already had your forge brought over,” he says, pointedly.

“Yep, I will definitely have that on when I’m working,” Stiles says cheerfully.

He’d started metalworking while in high school, first out of curiosity, then as a lucrative side-job. Now, it’s the only work he does. His online store sells out pretty often, both because he does good work, and because Stiles plays up his “secret technique” for getting such fine detail into his pieces. The reality is that it’s a lot easier to bend and shape molten metal when you can touch it with your bare hands.

He has the forge and the protective equipment to keep up pretenses, just in case anyone comes by to see his workshop.

“Now that that’s settled,” his dad says, “I guess we can start unpacking.”

Stiles groans dramatically, just because he knows it’ll make his dad laugh.

 

*

 

There’s still something pulling at Stiles.

It’s softer now, more subtle, but definitely still there. He leaves his current batch of rings cooling on his workbench, and drives aimlessly around town until he realizes the feeling is coming from _the woods_.

He takes a bumpy dirt track that winds through the trees, driving until he gets tired of hearing his suspension creak, then pulls off to the side and starts walking.

He has a good sense of direction, never really getting lost no matter where he goes, so he doesn’t pay much attention to his route through the forest. Doesn’t pay much attention, that is, until he ends up in a clearing with a huge, old tree stump.

He walks cautiously closer, feeling the ancient power still rooted there, but he can also feel—someone had, at some point, corrupted the magic of the tree, leaving the center festering with darkness.

There’s still good in it, though. Stiles runs his fingers over the outer rings of the trunk, and knows for certain. Knows he has to do something, too.

He strips off his clothes—he can control his fire enough to keep from burning his own clothes, but that takes a lot of concentration—and piles everything off to the side, before letting the flames come to the surface and cover his body. He doesn’t let it burn hot enough to turn him to ash; he has no need to regenerate now. And though there’s the familiar pull, an urge to shift into his true form, Stiles resists that too. He doesn’t need it.

He just frees enough flame to make himself feel powerful, connected to the rest of nature, the same way he feels when he’s heating and shaping metal.

He steps on to the broad stump, and directs his fire down through the center, burning out the evil burrowed there. There’s resistance, a push back against the flames, and a sliver of darkness aims unerringly toward his heart.

It burns to nothing before it can make contact.

When it’s over, Stiles takes a few deep breaths, then crouches down and touches the burnt wood, making sure none of the corruption remains.

“That tree is evil,” someone says, sudden and unexpected, and Stiles startles a little.

He turns to find a very stern but very handsome man—no, wait. He catches a flicker of red in the stranger’s eyes, and realizes he’s not just looking at a werewolf, but an _alpha werewolf_.

Whose territory he’s probably invaded.

“Not anymore,” Stiles says, stepping back a little so he can see the blackened hole right through the heart of the tree. He can feel a soft wave of magic, like a small sigh of gratitude, wash over him and he smiles.

The werewolf glances down at the cautery, but his gaze is back on Stiles in an instant. “What are you?” he asks sharply.

“You don’t know?” Stiles says, a little taken aback. He figured the flames were an obvious giveaway.

He gets a frown in response. “Your clothes smell like human, but you. You don’t smell like _anything_.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, and lets some of the fire recede from his face and neck, so the alpha can see him better. He leaves the rest of it, hoping it covers his nudity. He’s never really had to worry about that before, forging alone in his workshop. “I’m a phoenix. My name is Stiles.”

“I’m Derek,” Derek says shortly. “You don’t look like a bird.”

Stiles can’t help his snort of laughter. He’s only ever revealed his secret to a few people, but he’s never experienced such a non-reaction. “Well, you don’t look like a wolf, but I still know you are one.”

Derek raises his eyebrows at that, looking surprised, but quickly schools his features again. “How did you do that?” he asks, focusing on the tree stump, rather than Stiles. “We’ve tried to destroy it several times.”

“Phoenix fire is incorruptible,” Stiles says. “So, I was able to destroy the dark part of the tree, while leaving the rest intact.”

“I appreciate that,” Derek says warily, then looks pointedly at Stiles’ flames. “But are you a danger to the rest of the forest?”

Stiles can’t help grinning, though he knows it probably doesn’t make a good impression. “Phoenixes are guardians of the forests and fields, and maintain balance. I may set a few fires, but here’s the thing, Derek. Fire is only a bad thing when it’s present in the wrong _amount_. See?” He sends a tongue of flame out to the dead leaves washed up against the trunk of the great tree, and once they burn to crumbling ash, calls the fire back to himself.

In the next moment he feels another wave of magic from the stump, and this time he directs toward the burnt ground. When he brings it to Derek’s attention, he’s obviously startled.

“That’s the other thing about fire,” Stiles says, looking fondly at the bright green shoots pushing up out of the blackness. “No matter how terrible the devastation, new life always emerges.”

In the place where his mother died, the most _beautiful_ flowers had grown.

“I want to say, _not_ always,” Derek says, sounding hoarse. “But now I realize you are right.”

Stiles doesn’t think they’re talking about the plants anymore. He’s not sure _what_ they’re talking about, but the fine tremble of Derek’s jaw tells him not to push.

“I believe that you won’t do any harm,” Derek says finally. “But I am the alpha of this territory, so if you plan to spend time in these woods, I’ll be keeping an eye on you.”

“I understand,” Stiles says, relieved. He’d hoped Derek wouldn’t try to drive him out.

Derek nods, then disappears back into the trees, as silent as he came.

 

*

 

Stiles decides to open the shop only a few days a week. He doesn’t have a real sign yet, but he’d painted the front window to say _Stilinski’s Metalworks_. Underneath, in smaller letters, he’d added _Custom Jewelry Available._

He hasn’t done any advertising, nor posted any store hours, so he’s surprised he gets customers at all the first day.

The first introduces herself as Lydia, and Stiles finds himself captivated by her red-gold hair as she browses the display cases. He can tell she has a core of strength and confidence, along with a passion for knowledge, and after a few minutes of idle conversation, considers asking her out. But for some reason he thinks of Derek, and decides not to.

“I don’t see what I’m looking for,” Lydia says after an extended perusal. “So, I’ll have to have something custom made.”

“My prices are expensive,” he says, less of a warning and more of a statement of fact.

“That is no issue,” Lydia says easily. “I would like a ring and bracelet set, with a bow and arrow design.”

Stiles nods, pulls a pad of paper from under the counter and slides it her way. “Okay, I just need some contact information. I’ll send you some sketches and get your approval before I start working.”

Lydia picks up a pen and begins to write. “Do you have a time estimate for when it’ll be done? I want to give it to her for her birthday.”

“I only have a few other commissions right now,” Stiles says, shrugging. “So, once you’ve decided on a design, it shouldn’t take more than a few days for me to complete the pieces.”

“Thank you,” Lydia says, and slides the paper back to him.

Stiles gives her a little wave as she heads out the door, then spends a moment admiring her penmanship before he pulls out his sketchbook and gets to work.

It’s more than an hour before his next customer shows up.

This time, it’s a friendly, kind-looking guy named Scott. He spends a lot of time admiring everything, leaning over the showcases and asking enthusiastic questions, smiling sunnily when Stiles answers with equal energy.

Eventually though, he sighs and says, a little more subdued, “Your work is beautiful, but I’m afraid I can’t afford any of it.”

Stiles glances at Scott’s face, then at the delicate wristwatch he’s been staring down at. It has a subtle motif of foxes and ravens, and Stiles has a feeling he wants to give it to someone special. “Tell you what—if you give me the names of the best places to eat around here, I’ll give you a discount.” After all, if he plans to stay here, he needs to make connections.

Scott beams. “I’ll do you one better. Me and my friends are getting together tomorrow night, since everyone’s back from college. You’re more than welcome to join us.”

“I’d like that,” Stiles says. “If you’re sure no one will mind?”

Scott reassures him they won’t, and exchanges numbers with Stiles before heading out the door, boxed-up watch held carefully in his hands.

There’s a brief lull, where Stiles gets more sketching done, before three strikingly attractive people make their way inside.

Stiles might not have a lot of abilities as a supernatural creature, but he does have the ability to see right to the heart of others, and know their true nature. These three, he can tell right away, are werewolves. There is some sort of tether, or link, that stretches from them and distantly to Derek.

“Hi, I’m Erica,” says Erica, flicking a wave of golden hair behind her. She points over her shoulder. “And that’s Boyd and Isaac.”

Stiles doesn’t think they’re here for pleasantries. “Did Derek send you?”

“No,” says Isaac. “We wanted to see you for ourselves.”

“Derek told us about meeting you in the woods the other day,” Erica says. “He tried to play it cool, but we could tell he was worried.”

“Worried? About me?” Stiles gestures to himself jokingly.

“Apparently when he met you, you were completely on fire,” Isaac says dryly.

“And if you knew Derek’s history, you’d know just why that would,” Boyd says carefully, “ _concern_ him.”

They’re severely tempting him to ask, but Stiles feels like it’d be better to find out from Derek himself. Though it’s good to know that Derek has people who care about him.

“So, we just came by to make sure you weren’t a danger,” she says. She breaks her serious expression after a moment, though, and says with a smirk, “Isaac here thinks he can smell evil.”

“I _can_ ,” Isaac says, then pointedly sniffs the air. “He’s fine,” he says, sounding a little disappointed.

“Look, I just want to make jewelry and roam around the forest,” Stiles says, raising his hands and hoping he looks harmless. “I have no nefarious plans. Okay?”

“Okay,” Erica agrees.

She and Boyd give him smiles before they head out the door, but Isaac levels him with an exaggeratedly suspicious look before he follows them.

To his surprise, Stiles finds himself laughing.

 

*

 

He has no doubt that Derek will be checking up on him—even if Erica, Boyd and Isaac report his lack of evil—so he decides to make it easy on both of them, and heads back to the giant stump.

He grins when he sees that, out of the blackened heart, there now emerges a tall sapling, delicate green leaves just emerging at the tips of its branches. It’s a good sign, evidence that it has truly healed, and its presence should now bring good-fortune and peace.

Stiles climbs up onto the stump and touches his fingers to the bark of the sapling, feeling the pure magic flowing through it. Contented that there is no remnant of malice, he pulls out his sketchbook and settles down to work on Lydia’s commission.

The forest is soothing, nothing but the sound of the birds and wind rustling through the trees, and Stiles is surprised to find it’s an excellent place to work.

He’s just finishing up a design for the ring when Derek’s voice says, “You’re back,” and his pencil makes a jagged line across the page.

“Yeah. It’s nice out here,” Stiles says, shrugging.

“It is _now_ ,” Derek says, low, almost like an afterthought. Most of his attention seems to be focused on intently observing Stiles.

“What?” Stiles says, glancing down at himself and then back up. He probably has pencil smudges on his face, or something.

“I hadn’t seen you—” Derek tries, making an aborted hand gesture.

“With clothes on?” Stiles finishes, laughing.

“ _Not_ on fire,” Derek says irritably. “You look,” and there’s a rather long pause before he says, “normal.”

“Thanks,” Stiles says wryly. “I’m not tending to the forest today, hence my regular appearance.”

Derek looks like he might say something, eyes flicking between the sketchbook and Stiles’ face, but instead he just nods and turns, heading away through the trees.

And though he hadn’t exactly expected Derek to stay, Stiles finds himself feeling a little disappointed.

 

*

 

Scott and his friends are meeting at the diner, which is conveniently just a block away from Stiles’ shop. He walks over, enjoying the pleasant night, but hesitates for a moment when he gets there, his old anxiety pricking at him.

It passes in a moment, though, and he pushes through the door and makes his way over to their table. Most of the people he of course doesn’t recognize, but he’s surprised to see Lydia there.

“Good to see you again, Stiles,” she says, and introduces the girl next to her as Allison.

To his eyes, she almost seems haunted, as though she’s experienced great betrayal and tragedy, and is still coming to terms with it. Stiles only manages a small smile before he has to look away.

After he’s met everyone they all place their orders, and Stiles lets the jokes and teasing about college classes—and college shenanigans—wash over him, enjoying the atmosphere. Several people make an effort include him in the conversation, and he’s happy to join in, but he’s especially pleased when he manages to make someone laugh.

After they’ve had dessert, they head to the kind of arcade that has something for everyone. The group splits up between the bumper cars and laser tag, and Stiles is tempted to join them. But he knows that when he gets competitive he tends to get… _overheated_. Instead, he heads for the pinball machines, which are safely deserted.

Both Scott and Lydia stop by to make sure he’s not feeling left out, and he eventually gives in and plays a few rounds of Skee-ball with them. By the end of the night everyone’s congregated around him, talking and laughing, and being surrounded by them makes Stiles feel normal, accepted.

Like he could fit in here.

Like he could _belong_ here.

 

*

 

The next time Stiles goes back to the forest, he takes a few blocks of metal with him. Lydia’s decided on a design, so it’s time for him to practice. He won’t make the real thing out here—he does better in his workshop, where he doesn’t have to keep strict control over his fire and can properly cool the pieces—but he wants to see Derek again, hence his now-familiar trek to the stump.

He unrolls his toolkit of hardened steel first, running his fingers over each implement to ensure they’re in good condition. He’d forged them himself in his early high school years, when he’d realized he couldn’t get the detail he wanted using just his hands.

He rolls up his sleeves, and then cups a piece of silver in his hands, concentrating all his fire there. Small tendrils of flame creep down his arms, seeking the freedom they’re used to, but Stiles just huffs out a laugh and pushes them back.

He has the molten metal wrapped around his finger—for an estimate of size—and is just beginning to etch details into it when Derek appears. He doesn’t interrupt Stiles, but watches for a moment before coming to sit nearby.

Stiles tries not to show his surprise.

He also can’t keep quiet under Derek’s watchful gaze, so he begins to talk about what he’s doing. Why the type of silver was chosen, and the temperature it needs to be heated to. He explains that he’s practicing a design for a client, and that he’ll probably have to do it several times before he gets it right.

Luckily, if he makes a mistake, he can just melt it down and start again.

“It doesn’t hurt you at all?” Derek asks curiously, when Stiles’ rambling pauses.

“It looks like it would, doesn’t it?” Stiles asks, smiling. “There’s no pain at all. My dad doesn’t like to watch me forge because it freaks him out. He does, however, appreciate the high-quality set of kitchen knives I made him.”

“People always love handmade gifts,” Derek says, with a hint of a smirk.

Stiles laughs. “True enough,” he says. “And it works out, because though I do forge things for myself, I like making things for other people best.”

He’s finished with the ring, so he covers it with his palm to draw out as much heat as he can, then sets it down by his tools. He’ll need to polish it before he can see how well it turned out. The bracelet is next, and he begins to heat and stretch another piece of silver. He’s focusing on the task, making sure his technique is right, and doesn’t notice the silence until Derek’s voice suddenly fills it.

He talks briefly about the preserve and how werewolves have always roamed these woods, then moves to the huge stump they’re sitting on, called the nemeton. Derek tells him that it has drawn in many mythical creatures, most of them dangerous.

Stiles understands, then, why he was looked at with suspicion.

Derek seems like he might go on, but then lifts his head suddenly, obviously hearing something Stiles can’t.

“My pack is expecting me,” he says. “I have to go.”

“See you,” Stiles says as he walks away, and then, out of curiosity, takes a look at Derek’s heart.

He’d caught a glimpse when he’d first met Derek in the woods, had seen the strength built through adversity, and of course, had noticed his alpha status. But he’s shocked to see that it all rests on a foundation of ash, and there, right at the center of him, is an unfathomable sense of loss. He recoils at how deeply it is rooted, and is glad Derek can’t see his reaction.

What had happened to him?

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

It takes a few more days to get Lydia’s commission just right, but it’s worth it when he sees how happy she is. Most of his business is done through the mail, so getting to see the reaction to something he’s custom-made in person is a novelty.

He ends up splitting his time fairly evenly between the forest, his workshop, and the store. He doesn’t typically get many customers during store hours, so he mainly spends them clicking around on his laptop, researching whatever random thing he wants to know, or answering emails from prospective clients.

 He’s also started to truly tend to the forest, carefully burning accumulations of leaves and dried brush and making way for new, fresh life. But he’s only worked in the area surrounding the Nemeton, too worried to venture further out in case he misses seeing Derek.

He’s a little bit embarrassed about that.

He shouldn’t be developing a crush on a reticent, emotionally distant werewolf.

Except that he really isn’t, not anymore. Because Derek, through their gradually lengthening conversations, has begun to open up. He’s lost much of his stoicism; his expressions are softer and less guarded when he’s with Stiles, and he shares more of what he’s thinking and feeling. It’s like the real Derek is being slowly revealed to him, little by little, and Stiles finds he’s very much enjoying the process.

It has taken time, though, to get through Derek’s shell, and that’s never more obvious than when he looks at the sapling in the center of the Nemeton.  It has continued to grow larger, trunk thickening and branches spreading, so that a canopy of leaves now covers the massive stump in dappled shade. It’s a nice place to forge or sketch, or even just relax, and Stiles takes full advantage.

But sometimes he sits beneath that tree, feeling the pure magic flowing through it, and thinks that, despite everything he’s learned, some parts of Derek are still a complete mystery to him.

 

*

 

Stiles hangs out with Scott and his friends again, this time at Lydia’s house for a pool party.

He’s not much for swimming, but he dangles his feet in the water and happily soaks up the sun. He talks a little about the places he’s been, the traveling he’s done, and he’s surprised at everyone’s interest until he realizes most of them have never left California.

Someone—Stiles _thinks_ his name is Danny—starts asking Stiles’ opinion on the places he wants to move to after he gets his degree, and someone else passes him a beer while he answers. He accepts it, even though alcohol doesn’t do anything for him, and sips it idly as the conversation shifts to everyone’s post-graduation plans.

It’s a strange feeling, when they continue to ask his advice, because he’s essentially the same age they are, yet he’s almost being placed in a mentor role. It’s odd to realize that your life has matured you, and that it has set you apart from everybody else.

He happens to glance at Allison then, who’s sitting alone and not really participating in the conversation at all. It seems like there’s something different about her, like the core of her has become steadier, stronger, and he’s surprised by the rapid change. But then he sees her running her fingers over her new bracelet, a small smile on her face, and he suddenly feels lighter.

No matter how different he is, what he does _matters_.

 

*

 

By this point, Stiles has heard numerous stories about Derek’s betas, and the trouble they get themselves into—they may be powerful werewolves, but at heart they’re still teenagers—and appreciates the fondness in Derek’s voice when he talks about them. But he finds it surprising that an alpha werewolf would be content with a pack of _three._ Especially when, from what he can tell, it’s been that way for years.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he says then, because he suddenly has to know. “But you don’t really act that much like an alpha.” Granted, Stiles has only encountered a few himself—and has only been chased out of a territory once—but those he’s met have been aggressive and intense, running their packs with a firm hand and very little patience.

Into the silence following Stiles’ words, Derek says heavily, “I wasn’t supposed to be. But when the time came, I was the only one left.”

Understanding hits Stiles then, along with the realization that Derek had lost _everything_ , and the only thing he’d gained in return were alpha powers. And he’d somehow managed to survive, to pull himself together and rise up from his tragedy, and even, slowly, build himself and his life anew.

An intense wave of empathy burns at his throat, wells in his eyes, and he finds himself unable to say anything; doesn’t know what he’d say if he could.

But Derek keeps talking, like it’s something he _has_ to say, so Stiles does his best to swallow down the ache and give him his full attention.

“My mother was never the relentless, power-hungry kind of alpha. She of course had her strength, her abilities, but she mostly used them to make us all feel loved, safe. We were all part of the same pack, so she felt it was important to let everyone be involved in decisions, and she never hid anything from us. She kept us unified, and taught us how to blend in with humans, but made sure we were proud of who we were.” He takes a gulping breath. “My father was her second, a grounding force who was steady and kind, though he showed his teeth if he needed to. We lived in peace for years, on friendly terms with all the other packs nearby, and we felt like we could handle anything.”

The words have a sort of longing ache to them, and Stiles can’t help but lean his shoulder against Derek’s, hoping the contact might help, even just a little.

“When she—when they—I knew I was never going to be an alpha like her, and at first I didn’t even try to be,” Derek says, letting out a heavy breath. “I was full of grief and anger and _hate_ , and I just wanted something, _someone_ , I could control. All I had left to hold on to was my mother’s alpha status, and I made a mockery of it.”

He can feel the tension in Derek’s body, and ventures hesitantly, “But something must have changed, because you’re not like that now. And your betas clearly care about you.”

“It was a long road,” Derek says tiredly, rubbing at his eyes.

He talks about the things he and his pack had to face, and how his withholding of information often made things much worse, especially in the way it eroded the little trust he’d earned from his betas. How Boyd and Erica had nearly died, and how they’d almost broken ties and left him. He tells Stiles that he’d been willing to let them go, even knowing it would weaken him when he most needed strength. They deserved better than him. And he speaks, voice full of shame, about how he’d purposely tried to drive Isaac away.

And how he’d come to realize that his fear of being vulnerable, his fear of making attachments that mattered, had almost lost him his chance at another family, another _pack_. One he could protect, and in turn, would protect him.  

Stiles listens until Derek’s voice runs out, lets them both rest in the quiet that follows. He feels a solidarity with Derek, and finds he wants to share something of himself, the way Derek has shared with him. So, when Derek’s breathing has steadied, Stiles begins to speak.

“My mom was a phoenix, like me. After she died, I lost it. I went completely out of control. I started fights with people twice my size, I took completely unnecessary risks, and I was always trying to push myself beyond my limits.”

He’d gotten cuts and bruises and broken bones, but he hadn’t cared, not when he could burn himself away and emerge, fresh and new. No pain lingered long enough to make him hesitate. And he hadn’t even _tried_ to stop himself, not until he realized what he was really breaking was his father’s heart, and that was something that couldn’t be healed by phoenix powers.

“My mom was really sick when she was pregnant with me, and she had to regenerate pretty often. It got better once I was born, but she was still sick a lot, and toward the end it always took a long time for her to emerge from the ashes,” Stiles says, and finds his voice is trembling. Deep down, he knows that her death is due, at least in part, to his existence.

“My dad thinks that’s why she died—because she had to regenerate so many times. Like, maybe we only have a finite number of rebirths in our lifetime. And it terrifies him that I’ve done it so much, especially being as young as I am. He’s afraid he’s going to lose me.”

He tells Derek about all of the moving, how it was a necessity because of the trouble Stiles got himself into, and because the longer he was stuck in one place, the more reckless he got. His dad was trying to mitigate damage in both respects, so they got used to packing light and traveling often.

No place they’d been had ever really helped that much, though.

“Has it happened here?” Derek asks curiously. “Have you regenerated since you got here?”

“No, not once,” Stiles says, thinking back. He’s been in Beacon Hills for more than a month, and he hasn’t done anything uncontrolled or dangerous at all.

Except for accidentally invading an alpha werewolf’s territory, but that had turned out fine.

“Seems like things are getting better for you, too,” Derek says.

 

*

 

He’s surprised he doesn’t have nightmares about his mom that night.

He usually does, after he talks about her, which is why he and his dad avoid the topic so strenuously.

When he does dream about her, he sometimes dreams of the times they’d drive out to the middle of nowhere, looking for somewhere they could be entirely out of sight. His dad would lean against the side of the car and watch fondly as he and his mom would transform and fly.

Stiles would always try to impress him with his acrobatics, turning on his wing, looping and diving, while his mom flew above him in slow, watchful circles. Flying with her always made him feel completely free, and so full of happiness that he always burned brighter. When it was time to leave she’d call to him in her soft, melodic voice, and though he never wanted to go, he’d always follow her down to land.

But most of the time, when he dreams about her, it’s the moments before her death. The dreams always make him re-live, with perfect clarity, the sharp stab of fear he’d felt when she’d sunk down onto the grass, and shifted into a phoenix one last time. And as the flames blazed higher, she’d looked at him with such love and hope that he’d thought, for a moment, that everything would be fine.

He only considers them nightmares because, in the moment between sleeping and waking, he forgets that she’s not still with him.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was kind of short, sorry! I can't guarantee the final chapter will be posted within a week, since my work schedule is getting hectic, but I'll get it posted as soon as I can!


	3. Chapter 3

 

Stiles has just started melting the steel in his hands when Derek appears.

“Another commission?” he asks, taking a seat near Stiles.

“No,” Stiles says, running the metal through his fingers, stretching it out into a long, thin rope of molten heat. “Something for you.”

Derek looks a little thrown by that, but he sits down in his usual spot near Stiles, anyway. He doesn’t say anything though, just seems content to watch Stiles work, so Stiles starts talking instead.

“It’s funny, but I didn’t really think of doing this myself,” Stiles says, rolling the hot metal in his palms. “Metalworking, that is.”

“No?” Derek says, curiously. “You seem well-suited to it.”

“Well, I spent a good part of my early childhood accidently melting my toys, so for a long time I tried to ignore my power, and often refused to train with my mother. My parents actually considered starting me in school a year late, they were so afraid I’d catch something on fire. I really only loved being a phoenix those few times we’d drive out to somewhere safe, where for a few hours we could be free,” he says, and knows his voice wavers, just a little. “For a long time, all I could see was the destructive potential of my power, and nothing else.”

There’s a moment where Stiles takes a couple of breaths, trying to collect his thoughts, and Derek says softly, “We were coached pretty extensively before we were allowed to start school. Little kids are naturally pretty imaginative, so if they’d seen something strange nobody’d think much of it. But we still didn’t have a lot of leeway. We needed to have good control to be able to keep them _and_ ourselves safe.”

“Yeah, despite their concerns, I never set anything on fire at school. At least, not on accident,” Stiles says with a small smile. “But after my mom died, everything got a lot worse. Because what reminded me of her the most was _myself_. And if it was that hard for me to deal with that, I don’t know how my dad managed. I’d switch back and forth between hating my fire and keeping it ruthlessly contained, and then get filled with rage at how it had, in a way, taken my mother from me, and I’d go on destructive burning sprees. Sometimes, I’d keep going until I was so overheated that I couldn’t even cry anymore.”

He shakes his head, feeling the familiar guilt well up, because he’d been so _selfish_.

Taking a ragged breath, he carefully pulls the metal into a finer thread, and keeps talking. “So, it was bad for a long time. But then in some high school, on my way to detention again, I’d ended up walking past the metal shop. And I’d seen them all in there, wearing these heavy gloves and face shields, and using these big, clunky tools while trying so hard to _make something_. And I thought to myself, _hey, I could do that_. And have a much easier time of it, too.”

“Seems like you were right,” Derek says, watching his hands work.

Stiles laughs. “It still took a lot of effort and patience. The first thing I tried to make was a ring, and it was the ugliest, lumpiest thing you’ve ever seen. But I’d found that the process of making it, of carefully working and shaping and heating, had calmed something in me, at least temporarily. So I kept doing it. And I got better and better, ended up making my own set of tools and developing my own designs.”

He takes the thin thread of molten metal and begins to loop it into a crisscrossing form, building the body before spiraling the legs down and twisting a tail into shape. He’s practiced this dozens of times, making sure he’ll be able to do this right, for Derek. He forms the head last, carefully creating the delicate ears and snout, flowing the jaw smoothly into the neck.

The result is a wolf that is solid and strong, yet hollow. That lets the light shine through.

He cups his hand around it, making sure to pull out all the residual heat before he places it in Derek’s palm.

Derek gently touches the tiny wolf’s nose, smiling. “Stiles, it’s beautiful.”

The way he’s looking at it, wonderment on his face, makes Stiles feel warm. “I’m glad you like it.”

“It’s perfect,” he says, glancing Stiles’ way. “Forging clearly became a passion for you.”

“Yeah, it was the beginning of my realization that my powers could do more than destroy. And not long after I started, my dad gave me my grandmother’s notebooks. That’s where I learned about the role phoenixes play in healing the land and destroying evil. And knowing that I could do that helped me at least a little.” He sighs. “But I was still so angry. Because when it came right down to it, if I wasn’t _this_ , my mother would have never died.”

“It’s the same for me,” Derek says softly, the corners of his mouth turned down. “If we hadn’t been werewolves, I would have never lost her. Never lost any of them. But she was so proud of our heritage, of our protection of Beacon Hills, that I could never bring myself to regret being what I am.”

“I think that was my problem,” Stiles says, trying to smile. “No matter how I tried, I never really could, either.”

 

*

 

Stiles ventures further and further into the forest, since he and Derek are at least _friends_ now, and he knows Derek will come and find him if he wants to. After all, he can’t just wait around at the nemeton all the time. The forest is ripe for a disastrous wildfire, and Stiles is glad he’s here to prevent it.

He’s focusing on sending out small flames to consume the built-up piles of leaves and branches, then puling them back before they get too greedy, so it’s a shock when he steps into the clearing and sees _that._

He instantly smothers every tendril of flame that’s loose, too distracted by the ashen, half-standing structure to properly control them. The leaden weight of tragedy settles over him, along with the awareness of a lingering presence of hatred _,_ of _hunger._  

He’s staring abjectly at what was once a home when Derek appears at his shoulder.

“You found it. The Hale house,” he says neutrally, and suddenly everything he’d glimpsed in Derek’s heart makes horrifying sense. “I lived here for a while, when I came back to Beacon Hills,” he continues.

How could anyone live _here?_ Stiles thinks, staring at Derek in shock.

“It was both comforting and devastating,” Derek says, seeing Stiles’ expression. “I think it was probably for the best when I stopped coming here.”

Stiles swallows around all the emotions he doesn’t know what to with. He doesn’t know how Derek can bear to even _look_ at the place where he lost everything. “There’s a malevolence that still lingers here,” he says, the words coming out surprisingly strong. “It’s poisoning the land.”

At Derek’s questioning look, he tries to figure out the best way to explain.

“Whatever evil was here, it left a feeling of incompleteness, of a hatred unquenched. It’s keeping the land from healing,” Stiles says. He thinks it might be keeping _Derek_ from completely healing, too. “See, it should be full of grass and shrubs and flowers,” he says, pointing to the barren ground surrounding the house. “And the roof would be covered over with vines. I could…I could burn away that darkness, if you wanted. It wouldn’t harm the structure,” he hastens to add.

Derek stares up at the house, and there’s something in his expression that hurts to look at. “It could become part of the forest again?”

“Yes,” Stiles says, gently. “Once I burn away the darkness, life can return here.” Leaving only the natural grief in its place, right here where it belongs.

Derek nods. “Then do it.”

Stiles gathers his fire into his hands, then pushes it out into wave that stretches across the clearing. The flames sweep across the house, but don’t touch it, trailing down the sides and back and leaving it free from taint. Then they’re gone, leaving the clearing somehow feeling lighter.

And then Derek sinks down to the ground, hands digging into the ash and dirt, and tells Stiles everything.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had intended this to be the last chapter, but real life really got in the way of my writing. So I wanted to post this, just to let everyone know I haven't abandoned the fic!

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is turning out longer than I expected, so I'm posting it in parts (two or three, I'm not sure yet). 
> 
> Feel free to come by and prompt me/talk to me [ on tumblr](http://dragon-temeraire.tumblr.com/).


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